The Reader Travels

My one experience riding a motorcycle was a dirt bike my boyfriend owned in high school. Of course my mother forbade my riding on it. She knew it would be futile to forbid me to date the wretched boyfriend, but she could hold onto her illusions about the motorcycle thing.

I have to say, it’s always been easier for me to keep secrets than to tell outright lies. If I hadn’t crashed the bike on the dirt trail and twisted my ankle, it would have been smooth sailing. But sporting an Ace bandage and a limp meant I had to come up with something to tell her that wouldn’t have me admitting to the crime.

When you’re a terrible liar, you have to keep it simple. The boyfriend was all about elaborate lies. He told my parents he had been doing some mechanic work underneath his car, when an axle or some other heavy under-body part swung loose and hit him in the head. All so he wouldn’t have to admit that he got drunk at the beach and lost a fight with a guy who was simply talking to me. I don’t remember the lie he expected me to tell when he flipped his car into a ditch and left it there because he didn’t have a driver’s license, all while I waited for him at the Stop N Go, my purse in the back seat of his car. All I knew was that it was just too complicated, and I wouldn’t have pulled it off if pressed about it.

So I kept my little lie simple, to something I could envision myself doing, as clumsy as I am. I can still see it now, even more vividly than the truth of the motorcycle lying on my ankle. I was just walking along the brick steps beside the house I grew up in. I twisted my ankle by stepping off the side of one of the bricks as I had done twice before, for real. The fresh mint was overgrown there because of a leak in the hose, spraying water, so the steps were damp, but everything smelled minty clean.

Of course I ended up married to a great storyteller. If he were telling the tale, I would have twisted my ankle fighting off a large pack of wolves. The wolves would all be dead or severely wounded, but all I’d have to show for it would be a bruised ankle from landing a little wonky after drop-kicking the leader of the pack.

I read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road this past summer, thinking it might be a nice addition to my road trip tour. It’s the story of a father and son traveling through post-apocolyptic North America. Along the road, they search for food and for some evidence to support their dream that maybe, just maybe, there are a few good people left in the world.

I enjoyed the book. It’s well written, deep and poetic. But I did have a few problems with it. First off, I just couldn’t understand how they could survive when absolutely no wild life, other than one stray dog could survive. There wasn’t even any mention of cockroaches, which as everyone knows will outlast any catastrophe.

Another problem I had was the absolutist approach that cannibalism could be nothing but evil. It seems a very narrow world view to me, but at the same time, it works for the story, as what they see from the road must certainly be a similarly narrow view. In most travels, what we see from the road merely scrapes the surface of the life beyond the road. And we all know that the locals don’t always welcome travelers for dinner, unless it’s maybe to eat them.

One thing I loved was the images and memories of fish as a symbol of heaven. I guess as Thanksgiving approaches, we really should be thankful for the things we often take for granted, things as simple as the ability to go fishing in a lake or river, to bring home food for our bellies.

Anyway, it’s only appropriate that the movie is out now, during Thanksgiving time. Be thankful for what you have, for it all might be taken away.

My friend M made a 3200 mile bicycle tour from Seattle to Delaware ten years ago with a group called Wandering Wheels. They’re a Christian-based organization, and the trip is like some sort of pilgrimage, connecting with the beauty of nature and stopping to rest at various churches along the way.

I recently got a hold of her scrap book from the trip. She took pains to collect her journal entries, photographs, maps, letters and postcards into a very nice hard-bound volume called, “Are We There Yet?” It was by no means an easy trip, made more a pilgrimage by the hardships endured and the 40-day duration of their travels. At the end, they baptized themselves in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, washing their bodies and their spirits clean.

I’ll share a few things that came to mind as I read her story:

• Horatio’s Drive - The story about Horatio Nelson Jackson and the very first coast-to-coast automobile trip had a lot of similarities to the bicycle tour, lots of flat tires and vehicle repairs along the way. Every leg of the journey was a trial, and his companions made all the difference. 
• Travels with Charley - In John Steinbeck’s classic memoir of his travels across America, he mentions briefly that he went to church every Sunday in a different town. He was most fond of the fire and brimstone sermon, where being told he was a foul sinner somehow made him feel better about himself.
• Wade’s Review of the Camelbak - A few week’s ago, I read a review of the Camelbak hydration system on the Vagabond Journey Travelogue, where Wade said that the thing leaks. When I saw in the beginning of M’s book that she was using this piece of equipment, I wondered what she thought of it. Near the end, she writes, “My CamelBak plug came off and stuff started spraying everywhere. I don’t think I’m going to use that anymore.” So there you have it.

My dear friend L spent the last nine months walking, preparing herself for the Breast Cancer 3-Day, held this past weekend. She was the very symbol of struggle and determination, walking so much that at one point she broke her foot, just from all the walking.

But she didn’t let it stop her. She got her boot and her physical therapy, and she kept working out even when she couldn’t walk. Then as soon as she was able, she started walking again. She raised her money, she trained and trained, and the excitement mounted as the day drew near.

She started her 60-mile walk on the morning of Friday November 6. She made it through a whole day of walking, exhausted and footsore. She was camping out Friday night when her body told her she needed to stop. Sick and vomitting Friday night and all day Saturday, she had to nurse herself back to health, while her fellow walkers walked on. But she was back on the road Sunday, determined to finish what she started.

This grueling walk is meant to symbolize a struggle, a fight, determination to defeat death, disease and hardship. It was 3000 people walking strong, leaning on each other, for life. I just don’t know how anyone’s struggle could have been more symbolic than my L’s, that she would start strong, then get sick, then come out strong in the end.

Linster, you are my hero.

My Halloween tradition had me paying tribute to the late Farrah Fawcett this year. I had the perfect shirt in my closet already. I just needed a wig. Of course I didn’t own any jeans that weren’t oversized or holey, but I needed to remedy that situation anyway. So I took off work on a Friday afternoon and went shopping.

I didn’t even notice the tag on the jeans until I got them home. Here’s what it said:

Sweet ‘N Low (R)
She is always fun.
She is the girl that knows everyone and is loved by all.
She is refined yet fashionable… and she remains true to herself.
Her mid rise, easy fit with a flare makes her ready for anything.

I don’t know about you, but I think she sounds like a real slut.